


Color, Me.

by lampshaded (illuicient)



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Dark, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-01
Updated: 2007-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-16 11:07:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2267439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illuicient/pseuds/lampshaded
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Duo lives in a mental hospital. He doesn't believe he's insane.</p><p>Written for a friend who wanted a non-happy ending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Color, Me.

They say I’m crazy.

I know I will be, by the time they’re through with me. We all had to take psych tests at the end of the war, all of us insane, Gundam pilots. I was the only one that failed though. I knew I was in for it after that, but there was no way I could’ve known what kind of hell they’d shove me into. Communication used to be a vital point I my life, but that was before I got landed here—in the endless white walls, sterile beds, and office-like blue carpet. I haven’t said a word since I entered those doors and I don’t intend to until I leave them permanently. This is one evening in my new life.

Paint a picture of my life.

Easy enough. Too bad they gave me washable, non-toxic crayons. And I hate it when they watch me—even if it is just one person. She’s a pretty lady, with puffs of blonde hair and too much face paint. I think it might be more fun to color with lipstick—these crayons tend to have too much wax and too little color.

I choose brown first; that’s how my life started, with brown. Dirt, rust, paper sacks, concrete, water puddles—and Solo’s blond hair, unwashed and curling. They’re all brown. They were at the beginning of my life. I make a thin stripe of brown near the bottom of the page.

Yellow comes next. The color of Sister Helen’s hair. The crayon’s color is much too harsh for her shade, but it matches perfectly with the stained glass that used to be above the largest cross, at the back of the church. It was a beautiful picture of something, but I have problems recalling what. I make a thin, wavy line of yellow on top of the brown.

The scribbling of her pen distracts me, the lipsticked blonde. She’s writing something serious. I can tell ‘cause her lips are pressed tight together. Too bad I disappoint her yet again. Want a breakthrough, lady? Get me outta here.

The next color I choose is orange. Orange for flames. I have a perfect mental snapshot of the church in its last minutes. I was hid near a dumpster, watching after it all. Orange flames darted out of the broken windows, licking the roof and leaving their black breath behind, staining the concrete of the walls. I never knew what happened after that, I suppose they just tore down what was left and spaced the bodies. The world became a lot colder after that fire. I make a jagged line of orange on top of the yellow.

After that, my life was red. I remember when I first became Shinigami during the war, I counted the souls I took—the ones I freed from this wretched world. I lost count after the first few hundreds. Red stained my hands as I did G’s work. Inhuman, that’s what I was. At least, that’s what it felt like. I lived only for battle, to take the lives of those who stood in my way. I made jokes and friends, exaggerating the humanity I had left, while desperately seeking what had been stolen from me. Childish innocence is too much to ask if you want to live, but now that I think about it, maybe I never even had it in the first place. I make a bold stripe of red above the orange.

Ah, gray. Such a soothing, mindless color. I’m pleased to note that the crayon has a blue tint to it, reminding me of gundanium. Though this crayon could never shine like that stuff could. My world was clouded as the pain of killing wore away and the war continued. So I was a killer. No news there. Kill or be killed; a simple rule for someone with little schooling. It’s not like I had anything to lose, at least nothing I knew of yet. Just living to do G’s orders; just killing to keep myself alive. Simple, mindless, and without blame. The red on my hands still dripped, leaving a bloody trail behind me, but now that the fog was thick enough, I couldn’t see it anymore. It was a bleak time, the bulk of the war. Sometimes I wasn’t even sure what I was fighting for. I swirl the gray on top of the red and continue until it’s almost entirely obscured. Only a stub of gundanium gray is left. Half of the page still remains blank.

I look in the small box; the bottom dotted with waxy colors. Only two crayons remain. I pick up the blue. It’s a wonderful dark color, though it pales in comparison to who it represents. Deep eyes, intense with anger; a flash of that stormy blue, my only warning. Heero, how could you not find your way onto my life’s painting? I wish they had a crayon the color of your mouth. I wish they had a blanket as soft as your hair. The first time we were together I was fascinated by how soft you were. Physically, your hands were gentle and everything about you—from your hair to the skin on the back of your neck—held the softness of youth. Mentally, you showed me that you weren’t always confident and that you needed companionship as badly as I did. No, I frown, that’s not quite all right. You’re not blanket–soft. Nor are you really comfortably so. Thin and strewn with muscle, you were more bone than skin it seemed, nothing fluffy-soft or pillowy-soft. You’re more of red-hot metal soft, smoothly bent with only the strongest of tools. You’re difficult to get close to and difficult to bend, but it’s not impossible. For a person with as little humanity as you claimed to have, you gave me an awful lot. You made me feel like a real person, not just a murderer, thief, or even soldier. I could be loved; that’s what you taught me. Your perfect hands were as bloody as mine, but I never even noticed when you were around. You were what got me through the rest of the war; hoping for better times. I color the rest of the page blue then gently place the worn crayon back into the box.

I pick up the last color and stare at it momentarily. Black stares back. I never did understand why they wrapped the black crayons in gray paper, but I suppose it’s due to the fact that nothing’s darker, so they could only go for a lighter color. Ah, black, my friend, you have always been there. Even in childhood, black rimmed the eyes of those too young to meet their fate. Black smoke billowed out of broken stained glass, leaving behind just the smudges of its fingerprints. Black was the darkest night; my hiding place shrouded in shadow. You were what greeted me in the cold cells during my captures. You were the one who was with me the nights Heero was in the hospital. And you were waiting there, behind my eyelids, when he disappeared onto the earth shortly after. You were there when this place of stark white interrupted and took over my life, you came after injections; you were my blissful hiding place, my darkest black. And I know you’ll be the color of the tag hanging off of my foot someday. I stare at the black a moment longer before scribbling over all of my life’s colors. With sore fingers, I finally stop when the black crayon is nothing more than a paper-thin bead of black, the wrapper discarded to the side. I take that drop of black, all that is left, and smear it into the center with my fingertips.

The lipsticked blonde is still scratching away at her clipboard with her pen. I can’t help but notice it’s black as well. I sneer and pick up my heavily crayoned paper, my life’s painting, and follow the orderly by the door back to my sterile room.

I sit on my bed for several minutes after the door closes and the light flicks off. It’s supposed to be bedtime, I have no such luck though. The picture in my hand holds my full attention and my head is much too busy and crowded to sleep.

Jeezus Duo, I mentally chide myself. It’s just an effing picture.

I drop the thing on the floor and watch as it lands face down, drowning in the sea of blank, disinfected tile. Standing, I grind the page under my foot, letting it smear the wax all over the sterilely white floor. I drop to my hands and knees, clawing at the back of the page with my hands and continuing to rub the colors away. My shadow is jumping vigorously ahead of me, as the paper scrubs near the shadow near my knees and the night light glows behind me. 

After a few minutes, I sit back onto my bare feet and catch my breath. Closing my eyes into the blackness, I tilt my head back and try to relax; I almost lost it there. I look down at the back of the page and the dirtied tile around it for a moment before picking the paper up. 

My mouth opens into a silent gasp as I turn the page into the light. Black only covers half of it; the rest is colored with that beautiful blue. The blue wax shines dimly at me with only a few black smudges to show for what used to cover it entirely. Blue flickers in the darkness, hands cupping my face and fingers softly tracing my eyelids. I gasp for air, falling backwards onto the cool floor; my face feels ignited and I can hear the roar of blood pumping in my ears. Phantom touches slide down my jaw and I can almost feel the heat of his breath on my lips. Almost.

But I stare at shadows of the ceiling, alone, and wonder when I’m really going to lose it. I close my eyes and send out a mental plea.

Remember me? I can’t live without you now. Please find me, please help me, Heero.


End file.
